


Abandoned

by Ariel_Tempest



Series: A Long Time Coming [3]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Humor, Original Character(s), Post-Series, Relatives, Sequel, Spoilers, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12991986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: Mr. and Mrs. Molsley never saw themselves as parents, but life has a way of ignoring our plans.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another not-planned sequel. Of course, this plot bunny not only followed me home from the comments section, but I think it's pregnant...

The sun had long since set, leaving the Yorkshire countryside full of the sounds of crickets and night birds. Somewhere an owl called. The moon, nearly full, provided light in the open spaces between trees and across lawns and gardens. Despite this, a lantern bobbed along the road leading from Downton Abbey to the town cottages. A cheerful voice accompanied the lantern's glow as the man carrying the lantern regaled his companion with a series of anecdotes from the night's dinner party. 

"Of course, it was terribly embarrassing, all told," he chuckled, apparently unable to help himself. "I'm surprised he wasn't thrown out of the house on the spot. If the Dowager were still alive, the poor man would never have heard the end of it. Imagine, sneezing soup on Lady Mary! Poor Anna will have a time of it, getting her dress clean." He paused and looked at his companion. "Phyllis, are you all right? You've been awfully quiet. I hope her Ladyship wasn't too terribly upset by the whole evening?"

"Hm?" Phyllis Molsley, still known to her employers as Baxter to save fuss and learning new names, blinked and looked up at her husband's concerned face. In truth, she hadn't been more than half paying attention to his recitation of the night's events, even though he was a far more lively story teller than her employer. "Oh, no," she smiled as the question sank in. "That is, she wasn't happy about it, of course, and I can only imagine that Lady Mary was livid, but she saw the humor in it as well. After all, it wasn't his fault."

"No, it wasn't," Mr. Molsley agreed. "I'm glad her Ladyship wasn't overly troubled by it. I mean, beyond the obvious." When she replied with only an indistinct hum of agreement, her dark eyes turning once more into the surrounding shadows, he stopped, his eyebrows drawing sharply together. "Phyllis?" he asked again, "Is there something wrong? Are you well?"

She stopped along with him. It was a moment before she turned her attention and wan smile back up at his face. When she did, she quietly assured him, "Yes, Joseph, I am quiet well. Don't worry about that. It's only," she paused, frowning, and looked down at her hands. "I received a letter today, from my cousin Bertha, and I'm not quite certain what to do with it. It concerns my cousin Lettie's son."

Mrs. Molsley's family, while certainly something the couple had discussed from time to time, was not a frequent topic of conversation. Mr. Molsley frowned for a moment, then asked, "Lettie, wasn't she the one who died from tetanus? I didn't remember that she had a son."

"That's the thing of it, I didn't know she had."

"Well, what's become of him, with his Mum gone?"

Phyllis sighed. "I don't know the particulars," she replied, clearly unhappy with the answer. She very much wanted to know the particulars, but Bertha's letter had been short and almost brutally to the point. "But apparently he's been passed around between the relatives since Lettie died. Bertha has him now, but she says she can't possibly keep him. Can't afford it, I suppose." She paused, then steeled herself and looked up into his eyes. "She says if we can't take him, they'll have no choice but to send him to an orphanage."

"An orphanage?" Mr. Molsley blinked in surprise, then frowned. "But that seems a bit extreme, I mean, if he has family who can take him in. Surely you aren't the last person they have to ask?"

"That's the thing, it seems I am. Everyone else has either had him already or has been asked and said no." She paused, then added very quietly. "I know we'd said we were too old for children, but he's my cousin."

It took him a moment to reply. When he did, it was an uneasy stammer. "Of course he is. I'd never suggest we just... How old is he, exactly?"

Of course, Bertha hadn't seen fit to tell her that either. "Not a baby, I know that much. From what little the letter said, he's at least school age. I feel like he'd have to be at least seven or eight, maybe as old as ten."

"Oh, well, that's not so bad then," Mr. Molsley nodded, thought about it a moment, then nodded again, a bit more brightly. "It's not as if we'd be trying to raise a three year old and both work. I'll leave that to Mr. and Mrs. Bates, thank you. But if he's school age, he might well be in my class, mightn't he? I'd just be taking him to work with me."

"That has its own set of risks," Phyllis reminded him, but her smile was a bit stronger. "But yes, it would certainly be easier than asking Nanny to take on yet another charge. She has her hands full as it is, between the upstairs children and Danny." Danny, the Bates's boy, had been a fixture in the Downton nursery since the day he was born. Before his official retirement, Mr. Carson had occasionally fretted that he would grow up thinking he was part of the family. The other staff, and the family themselves, were less concerned. In fact Phyllis got the feeling that Thomas was wickedly amused by the idea.

Mr. Molsley frowned, mulling the idea over. "We'll have to look at finances. We should be well enough off, I would think, but it will still want doing. How long do we have to make a decision?"

That, at least, Bertha had told her. "She said that if the boy hadn't been taken off of her hands by the end of the month, she'd have no choice but to put him in the workhouse."

"That gives us a couple of weeks, then, at least." Not having to decide right then and there made Mr. Molsley visibly relieved. "It's late enough I don't trust myself to make big decisions right now. Why don't we sleep on it and we can talk again in the morning, when we're a bit fresher?"

"That's sensible, yes," Phyllis smiled, relieved that he was even allowing the subject on the table for discussion. Part of her felt silly for having even doubted. After all, his kindness was a good part of why she loved him, but there were always practical considerations. 

The two started walking again, more quietly this time, the stories having been replaced by silent pondering. "What's your cousin's name?" Mr. Molsley asked, as if the question had just occurred to him. 

Phyllis grimaced. "I don't know."


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later found Phyllis in Cheshire. She had insisted to Lady Grantham that her cousin was undoubtedly old enough to be put on a train and sent without a chaperon, but as a devoted mother herself the noble woman wouldn't hear of it. She'd been granted nearly a full day to fetch him in person, the only caveat being that she arrive home in time to dress her Ladyship for dinner.

The Lennox farm was a small-but-tidy affair just outside of Adlington, Cheshire. Phyllis walked up the lane under the watchful eye of a pair of boys, nearly men, who were chopping wood not far from the front door. When she was halfway there, one of them left off his chores and ran to the house, leaning over and calling inside. Phyllis assumed they were Bertha's sons, although they could have easily been hired hands. She smiled at the remaining boy as she walked past him and while he didn't smile, he did nod back respectfully.

"Phyllis, there you are!" Bertha appeared in the door way. It had been years since Phyllis had seen her, since the day she had stopped being Bertha Baxter and become Bertha Lennox. Gone was the plump, pretty bride, showering her cherub-like dimples on the assembly. She was still handsome enough, but the plumpness had given way to muscle with hard work, so while her face still had Mrs. Patmore's roundness, her arms were more like a boxer's. "I thought you'd changed your mind."

"Of course not. It just took me a bit longer to walk from the station than I thought it would.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you, if you had." With a shake of her head, Bertha turned and headed back into the house. The boy who had gone to fetch her squeezed out past her and started back to his chores, only to be stopped by her hand round his arm. "Here, Robby, is your cousin packed yet?"

"Just about, Mum," the boy replied, confirming Phyllis's suspicion as to their relationship. "Peg's helping him with the last of it."

Bertha nodded and let him get back to his work. "I'd offer you tea, but I've too much to do before the youngest get back from school."

"How many children do you have?" Phyllis asked, looking over her shoulder at the boys and wondering what the other was named. She gotten letters, occasionally, telling her about births in the family, but she had the feeling she'd missed a few over the years. If nothing else, she'd not received many letters in prison.

"Seven, all told," the other woman replied. The interior of the house was as tidy as the outside and smelled of baking. "Most of them girls, rotten luck. One set of twins. Wouldn't be too bad, having another boy about, but this one's been spoiled. All soft and weak. No good at all around the farm, and I can't afford to take on a charity case, not when Johnny's already lost his arm."

"How did that happen?" The fact that both of the boys out front had two arms told Phyllis that Johnny must be younger than them. The thought of a school aged boy losing an arm horrified her.

"Accident with the threshing machine last harvest. He gets around, still, and is a fair hand with the animals, but it's not like having him hail and hearty, I can tell you that." Bertha sighed, stirring something on the stove. "I'll be happy once the girls start finding work and husbands. Peg's got a boy, but unless he hurries up and makes an offer, she's going to be looking at factories or houses." She shook her head again. "No, I just don't need a spare body." Eying Phyllis, she added, "Of course, I doubt you do either. What are you doing these days?"

"I'm a lady's maid at Downton Abbey, in Yorkshire," Phyllis replied.

"A lady's maid? Still?" The shock in her cousin's voice hurt, but wasn't really surprising. "Wouldn't have thought you'd get another position like that, not after...well. Not with your history."

"I was very lucky, and I'm grateful for it."

"I'll say. Job and a husband? If thievin' can do all of that, I should set the girls up as buglers."

Not at all comfortable with this line of conversation, Phyllis turned it back to the task at hand. "And my husband's a teacher, so we have a very respectable income. Another mouth to feed won't be too much, and with Mr. Molsley for a father, he'll get a very good education."

"Well that's something then. More than his natural father gave him." Leaving the stove, she walked over and yelled up the stairs. "Peg! Are you two about done up there?"

"Be right down, Mum!"

"Well hurry it up! You're just packing the clothes, not the bed and dresser to go with them!" 

As the other woman returned to the stove, Phyllis asked, "What did his father do? Your letter didn't give me many particulars."

"According to Lettie he was an Earl," Bertha snorted. "Think she was just putting on airs to make up for the fact she'd gotten herself in trouble for nothing."

"I see." Phyllis rather wished she hadn't asked. It wasn't that she thought Bertha heartless, simply too busy and put upon to be thoughtful. She herself felt a pang of regret, knowing that Lettie had been raising a boy all on her own and she'd not been able to help.

Footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs and soon a girl of about fifteen appeared. She looked much like a younger version of Bertha, only her hair was lighter and it curled on its own. "All packed," she announced. "He'll be right down once he uses the loo." She looked at Phyllis with curious, dark eyes. "Are you cousin Phyllis, then?"

"I am," Phyllis smiled at her. There was every chance they'd never meet again, but she nonetheless wanted to make a good impression.

"Mum says I might ask you about how to get into service," the girl replied. "But not how to stay there. It's better than being in a factory, in'it?"

Ignoring the reference to her past, Phyllis nodded. "I think so, anyway, although I know a lot of people are going into factories these days. If you get in a good house, though, it's very good work. Long hours, but you'll be used to that, I think."

"Course I am," Peg snorted. "Up before dawn in the snow to get the eggs. Least Geordie milks the cows, so I needn't fuss about that." Geordie, Phyllis assumed, was the third son.

"Speaking of work, that's enough idle chatter!" Bertha scolded as she opened the oven and revealed the source of the warm bread smell. She set the loaf out to cool and turned back to the stove. "You can talk and sweep at the same time."

Peg huffed a little and rolled her eyes, but she dutifully fetched the broom. "This is good practice, in'it?" she asked Phyllis as she set about sweeping. "The big houses need maids to sweep."

"To sweep and dust, yes, although some of them are getting new, modern inventions to help make it easier," Phyllis confirmed. She didn't elaborate for fear of making the girl feel under qualified, but the maids at Downton had been quite cross when the vacuum had broken and they'd had to go back to doing the whole house with a broom while it was fixed. "Unless you work in the kitchen, of course. The scullery maid does dishes and blacks the stove rather than sweeping, but from there you can work your way up to cook, if you like."

The girl didn't seem too thrilled with the idea. "What's the best way to get into it, then?"

"Just keep an eye on job listings and apply," Phyllis shrugged. "If you get an interview, show up on time, or a few minutes early, and look neat and tidy. Mainly they want you to have nice manners and to not speak unless you're spoken to and to know how to keep things tidy."

"Well golly," Peg giggled. "If that's all it takes, Mum, why aren't we sending Lindsey off to be a maid then?"

"Boys aren't maids," a soft, cross voice answered, causing both Peg and Phyllis to jump. There was a boy of about ten standing at the foot of the stairs, suitcase in hand, although how long he'd been there was impossible to say. He was a pretty boy, pale, with dark eyes and long lashes. Phyllis could see why Bertha said he wouldn't make a good farm hand. He was too small and slender for it, although that could have been age as much as anything. He also looked as if he'd never smiled a day in his life. "I wouldn't want to be in service anyway."

"You, young man, will take whatever job God offers you and be grateful for it," Bertha informed him. She stepped away from the stove again, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so. "Just like you'll be grateful to cousin Phyllis for taking you to live with her."

Phyllis winced a bit at her brusque tone. With a care for her own, she gently inserted herself into the conversation. "And there's time, yet, for you to decide what you want to be when you grow up," she told the boy with a smile. "I take it you're Lindsey?"

The boy nodded, all solemn eyes and stillness. "Lindsey McClintock." Despite his grandfather's very Scottish last name, his accent was the more familiar roll of Manchester. For a moment she felt as if she were a girl again, asking Tommy Barrow were his sister was. Of course, he'd been more likely to reply with a roll of his eyes and a cheeky remark, unless one of his parents was about.

"I'm Phyllis Molsley," she replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you." When her words garnered no immediate response, Bertha huffed and looked like she was going to say something. Phyllis quickly held out her hand and continued, "We should be on our way. We have a train to catch, and I'm sure you'd like time to get settled into your new home by supper."

"You mean the orphanage?" Lindsey asked, eying her as if she might bite.

The question caught Phyllis off guard and her smile faltered in confusion. "No, of course not. You're coming to live with me at my house, like cousin Bertha said. My husband and I have a cottage in Yorkshire. You'll like it there, I'm sure." She smiled again. "But we mustn't be late to the station."

Glancing at Bertha out of the side of his eyes, Lindsey reached out and took the offered hand, sliding over to Phyllis's side like a skittish cat. "Now you see you mind," the other woman informed him, folding her arms over her chest. "These are your parents now, so you'd best do what they tell you."

"Yes, cousin Bertha," he replied, nodding, but not looking at her directly. "Thank you for letting me stay with you."

Bertha sighed one last time and looked at Phyllis. "Do write and let us know that you got home safely and how he's getting on and all."

It occurred to Phyllis that her cousin really did care about the boy, for all of her sharp words and course manners. But it was just as obvious that she didn't know how to raise him and didn't have time to learn, so she simply smiled and nodded. "Of course I will. Thank you for writing. I'm certain we'll do very well together." With a final round of nods, she and Lindsey turned and headed back out into the sunlight.


	3. Chapter 3

Phyllis checked her watched and sighed. There had been a delay in Leeds, so now they were running nearly three hours late. She had wanted to take Lindsey to the school house and get him registered. She could have introduced him to Mr. Molsley, then, and left him to get used to the classes until it was time to go home, while she went on to work. Now it was too late for all of that, but nowhere near early enough for Mr. Molsley to be off. "Well," she sighed, "It looks like you're going to have to come to work with me. I'm afraid that will be rather dull for you." She gave him an apologetic smile.

He shrugged and didn't say anything. He hadn't said very much the entire train ride home. If she'd asked him a direct question, he'd answered, but otherwise he seemed content to watch out the window and listen to her tell him about various sights. She had been able to coax some personal information out of him, mostly in short, guarded sentences. 

The two of them hurried from the station and set off through town at as good a clip as Phyllis thought Lindsey could manage. Despite the hurry, she still pointed out landmarks and waved to familiar faces, although she didn't stop to chat. She pointed out the post office, promising that if he had any friends he wanted to write she would get him postage. She pointed out the Grantham Arms and the hospital. She was just finishing explaining the relationship between Crawleys and the Greys, having pointed out Crawley house, when a familiar voice hailed her. 

"Hello there, Mrs. Molsley. You're later than expected." She turned to find Thomas walking toward them, a parcel tucked under one arm. He was smiling at her, but she caught his eyes straying to where Lindsey stood at her side. "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't make it home in time for dinner."

"Hello, Mr. Barrow," she greeted him, settling on his formal title for introductions. "I was beginning to wonder that myself, honestly. There was a delay in Leeds, something about blocked tracks, but they got them cleared in time."

"Thank goodness for that. Not that Anna couldn't have managed both her Ladyship and Lady Mary, but I know her Ladyship prefers to have you." Once through the niceties, he turned his full attention to Lindsey. "And this must be your cousin?"

"Lindsey McClintock, yes." Looking down at the boy with an encouraging smile, she took a small step away from him so that he and Thomas had a clear view of each other. "Lindsey, this is Mr. Barrow. He's the butler up at Downton Abbey and an old friend of mine."

Thomas tipped his hat at the boy and received a quiet nod in return. "Pleased to meet you. Although really, call me Uncle Thomas. All of the children do."

"All of them?" Phyllis asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Well, the servant's children, at any rate." There was something in his crisp, proper tone that Phyllis read as a faint air of guilt, although whether it was because he was lying or because he'd somehow taught Danny Bates to call him "Uncle Thomas" was a mystery to her. "And as you said, we're old friends, so it's certainly appropriate for Lindsey to call me that."

"I can't argue," she allowed. If she were honest, she wouldn't have been able to contradict him if she'd wanted too. He'd probably had his heart set on being the adopted Uncle since he found out she was going to be raising a child, even if he wouldn't have admitted it to anyone. "I'd been hoping to have time to get Lindsey settled in before I had to go up to the house, but the train delay has taken care of that. Care to walk up with us?" 

"No reason not to," Thomas shrugged, but he was still smiling and while it was reserved, it was also obviously genuine if you knew what to look for. "We're all headed to the same place, after all."

"True." Still smiling, she turned back toward the big house, trusting Lindsey to follow. Thomas fell into step beside her. "So what are you doing in the village, Mr. Barrow?"

"Oh, nothing much," Thomas brushed off the question. "Errands. Delivering a letter to the post office. Picking up a parcel. That sort of thing."

His manner was so deliberately offhand that Phyllis had to fight down laughter. He might as well have said he'd been waiting for them for nearly three hours. "Well, it sounds as if you've been busy at any rate," she teased.

Thomas threw her a quick, sideways glance, then dodged by turning the conversation to Lindsey. "So, Lindsey, what sorts of things do you enjoy?"

Lindsey who, as expected, was following obediently behind and to Phyllis's left like a small shadow, glanced up at him. His eyes quickly went back to the road and he shrugged. "I read a bit," he replied. "Do my school work."

The brief answer earned him a puzzled look from the older man. It didn't surprise Phyllis in the least. She'd received much the same answer when she'd asked that question. "And his favorite subject is maths, isn't that right, Lindsey?" she added, as much to show that she'd been paying attention during the train ride as anything.

Lindsey nodded.

"Not a bad subject. I was always rather fond of it myself, although I preferred reading." Thomas paused, glancing at Phyllis, then added, "Did Mrs. Molsley tell you that Mr. Molsley is a teacher? He teaches English and history at the local school."

Again, Lindsey nodded. 

It was obvious that Phyllis was going to have to carry half of the conversation. "And Lindsey is ten, which means he'll be in Mr. Molsley's class. That means he should have lots of help with his studies, should he need them." She gave Lindsey another encouraging smile. 

"Should he need them," Thomas agreed, his tone flattering the boy with the assumption that he was perfectly bright and would not need over much help from his adopted father. "Do you play cricket at all, Lindsey?"

That was a question Phyllis couldn't answer, as she'd not thought to ask herself. Lindsey simply shook his head. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "I've not been taught how."

"Well that's a shame," Thomas tutted. Of course, given his fondness for the game, he would think it a loss. "You'll have to come up to the house some time and let me teach you. It's great fun, and good exercise. Important for a growing boy."

"I think Mr. Molsley would like to teach him cricket," Phyllis protested. While she didn't want to discourage Thomas, exactly, she definitely wanted her husband to get to do more with their ward than simply study. 

Thomas rolled his eyes at her. "When was the last time you saw Mr. Molsley play cricket?"

"Well, I never have," she admitted. "But he talks about it a great deal and has mentioned how much he loves playing."

"He may love it, but he can't hit the broad side of a barn."

"Thomas!"

"I'm being honest," he protested. "Go ahead, ask anyone who's seen him play. His own father said he could talk a good game, but not play one." At her expression he sighed. "I'm not saying he doesn't have his talents, simply that cricket isn't one of them."

Phyllis huffed. Given how well Mr. Molsley and Thomas didn't get along, neither of them quite willing to forgive the years of working together, she didn't dare ask what he thought his talents actually were. "Well, while it's been dry for May, the weather's still a bit damp for cricket anyway. We have a couple of months to settle that particular debate."

Thomas kindly let the subject drop.


	4. Chapter 4

"We can set Lindsey up in the servant's hall for now," Thomas suggested as he let the three of them into the servant's hall at Downton. "I can speak with his Lordship and we might be able to move him up to the nursery, if he'd prefer, but that will depend on Nanny."

"I'd rather not have him start off his new life here by catching Miss Lizzy's cold," Phyllis sighed. The younger of the Talbot children had been ill for the past three days and while it wasn't serious, it was quite likely contagious. Her older brother, Edward, had started sneezing just that morning. 

Thomas glanced at Lindsey as he was hanging up his coat. "Good point. I was thinking that Master George's lessons would be about over and they might play well together, but you're right. Not worth the risk. I don't suppose you have any books packed, do you, Lindsey?"

Lindsey, who was peering down the stone hall with interest, shook his head without giving Thomas his full attention. Part of Phyllis felt like she should chastise him for the inattention, at least gently, but it was honestly the most interest she'd seen out of him for most of the day, so she let it slide.

"Maybe you could borrow something from the library?" she suggested to the butler.

"Nothing up there of interest to a young boy, I'm sure," Thomas shook his head. "Mostly stuffy old books on dead aristocrats and the like. I picked up a book for Master George, though, only to find out Lady Mary had already given him a copy. It's still in my desk, I can grab that. Might be a bit young for him, but it shouldn't be too bad."

"What is it?"

"One of those books about the Doctor that George likes so much. The one that talks to animals. Apparently this time he's gotten himself to the moon, somehow."

Phyllis wasn't certain a ten year old would be entertained by the same sort of book as a six year old. "Does that sound interesting to you, Lindsey?" 

Lindsey simply shrugged. He'd walked a little way down the hall, one hand on the sturdy stone walls. He tilted his head to examine the ceiling, then floor, then the way the mortar held the individual stones together. 

"Lindsey?" Phyllis asked, puzzled by his behavior, but not alarmed. "Are you alright?"

The boy startled a bit, then realized that both of the adults were watching him and stepped away from the wall, his hands behind his back. "Sorry," he apologized, although what for was anyone's guess. "I've just never been in a building this old that wasn't a church before. I like buildings."

"We'll have to give you a tour sometime, then," Thomas suggested, brightly. "I'm sure his Lordship wouldn't mind, if we asked first. The upstairs is really something."

While she expected him to be excited about having Lindsey around, his eagerness took Miss Baxter off guard a little. "I'm not certain that's quite proper, Mr. Barrow," she cautioned, bemused. "His Lordship is a kind employer, certainly, but I don't know that..."

"He'll say yes," Thomas waved her off, all confidence. "And if he doesn't, her Ladyship and Lady Mary will, you'll see." He started to lead the way to the servant's hall. "The boy's just about Miss Sybbie's age, a little older. You just mention to her Ladyship that you think it'd be good to meet the other children, especially as Danny still spends all of his time in the nursery, and that will be that, mark my words."

Phyllis had to admit, he had a point. Lady Grantham loved having children around almost as much as he did.

Lindsey followed Thomas a little more readily than he had in town, clearly more intrigued with his surroundings than he was intimidated by the tall, well dressed stranger. He paused at the entrance to the servant's hall, looking down the other way toward the kitchen and pantries, then turned and stepped into the large, open room with it's long table and lots of chairs. 

"Why don't you go and sit by the fire?" Phyllis suggested, being certain to follow the suggestion with a smile. "That chair's the most comfortable in the room and there will be plenty of light for reading."

"Are you hungry?" Thomas offered, almost right over the top of her. "I can pop into the kitchen and nick something for you."

"Um, no thank you," Lindsey replied, gingerly sitting on the chair, as if it might eat him. He set his suitcase next to him. "We ate on the train."

"Right, of course. Well, if you get hungry, just let me know." Thomas waited and was rewarded with a nod for his patience. "Right then. I'll just go and get that book and then we'll be all settled." He turned and headed for his pantry.

Phyllis paused, then, with a reassuring smile to Lindsey, followed after him.

* * *

Thomas sat at his desk and pulled open one of the drawers. "That boy," he informed her as he rummaged through some papers, "Looks like a young Ivor Novello. You're going to have a heart throb on your hands in a few years." He pulled a book out and handed it over to her. 

She smiled as she took it, but looked down at the cover without really seeing. "I'll worry about his heart first. I'm really quite concerned about him."

"Why?" Thomas asked, leaning back in his chair and frowning up at her. 

"I'm the fourth person to take him in since his mother died. From what I can tell, his Uncle Harry was the only other one to really want him, and he's died as well." She continued to stare at the book, her eyes blurring as all of the worry and pain she'd felt for the boy she'd only just met came to the surface. "When cousin Bertha told him he was coming to live with me, he honestly thought that meant I was just going to take him to an orphanage. No one even knows properly who his father is. I can't help but think he feels that no one wants him. That no one cares." She searched Thomas's solemn expression and wondered if she was drawing parallels that weren't there. But no, there was more about Lindsey that reminded her of the butler than his dark hair and manner of speech. Very carefully, mindful of nerves that were still frequently raw, she finished. "In my experience that can make people say and do things that they normally wouldn't. It can turn them into people they aren't."

Thomas sighed and shifted his eyes to clock sitting on his desk. There were two clocks in the room, both of which had appeared after Thomas had taken the position of butler. He saw to them himself. After several moments of watching the hands tick around the face he replied, "Well, in my experience, the best thing for someone who feels like that is for someone to care about them. And I mean really care. It's not enough to listen to them and then just give some nice, pat, condescending answer." He turned his eyes back to her, his expression the too-still mask she'd come to recognize as a shield to hide his pain. "And the sooner it happens, that caring, the better." He smiled. It was a small smile, a sad one, but genuine. "If you're right, then I think you're the best thing that could have happened to that boy. I really do."

"Thank you, Thomas." She smiled, taking comfort in his words. She looked down and her eyes finally registered the cover of the book in her hands, the odd little man with his hat hanging on a tree, apparently wearing part of the tree as a hat instead? It was difficult to tell what, exactly, was going on, but it was whimsical and the sort of thing a child might like. Leave it to Thomas to have it on hand. The thought sparked another and her brow puckered, although she kept smiling. "By the way, have you really taught Danny to call you Uncle Thomas?"

Thomas's smile went rigid. His eyes cut to the clock again and he pushed himself to his feet. "Will you look at the time? We really should be getting on."


End file.
